


Repose

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [148]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M, hot toddy fic request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:30:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>repose: noun: rəˈpōz: a state of rest, sleep, or tranquility</p><p>late Middle English: from Old French repos (noun), reposer (verb), from late Latin repausare, from re- (expressing intensive force) + pausare ‘to pause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repose

John had left Sherlock in bed, warm and for once, fast asleep that morning, on the wettest and dreariest February day he could remember. The clinic was full of coughing, sneezing, groaning and miserable patients, and he had missed lunch, again. His umbrella had blown out of his hand a block from Baker Street, so he was exhausted, starving and now, completely soaked.

Sherlock heard John sigh and travel slowly up the seventeen steps, not even bothering to miss the creaky one, which meant it had been a damp and dismal day. He added more wood to the fire and went to the kitchen to fix a couple of hot toddies. There was never much in the fridge, but there was always the makings of one of the few things that Sherlock made to perfection.

"Love? I'm home."

"Oh, John. You look like a drenched-"

"Don't say it-"

"Hedgehog. Sorry, pumpkin, but you do. Here, give me your coat- go get a shower, and I'll have a drink ready for you when you are done. Go-"

"I love you."

"I know."

John returned less hedgehogish and a bit more human to find Sherlock in front of the fire, completely in repose, even his fingers were relaxed, not steepled in thought, but resting in his lap. His eyes were closed, and he looked ten years younger.

John found his warm, fragrant drink next to his chair and sighed as the first sip went down. He found himself studying the man across from him, and tried to look at him objectively: wild, Byronic curls, dark as coal; eyes, a hue not yet named by science, when opened; when shut, his eyelashes could have been an advert for mascara...nose...adorable, and lips...god...no, he couldn't be objective about the man who was now smiling at him, his face softened by the firelight and his eyes dancing in amusement.

Neither man moved or spoke; after all this time, words were unnecessary. John sipped slowly at his toddy, and watched the fire sizzle and smoke. Sherlock stood and walked behind his chair, and gently trailed his fingers through John's damp, silver-tinged hair.

"Mmmmm..."

The detective bent down and slid his lover's robe from his shoulders, gently caressing the day's tension away with feather touches, until John moaned his name.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, love..."

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For loving me, even on my prickly days; for being here, beside me."

"John, there is no place on earth I'd rather be."

Sherlock rested his hand on John's shoulder and they remained that way in companionable silence, as they watched the fire die down into ashes.


End file.
